It was two weeks to Christmas. It was supposed to be cool but I still had my air conditioner turned on. And despite that, I woke up profusely soaked in cold sweats at one in the morning, revisited by my nightmares. I put a hand over my chest just to make sure my heart was still inside it.

The nightmare was so vivid I felt like I just got shot again. I often have dreams of the incident though the story kept on changing. My mind's coping mechanism was playing tricks on me that as of tonight, I had about twenty versions of the incident repeating in my head it made me wonder which one was the actual truth.

Jacob. He was there, always. And so were the admiral, Beau, and Alvaro. A lot of times, he took the bullet. In some, he dodged it. In two versions, just like the one I had tonight, he shot it.

Did I need to know the truth? Did I need to remember it, have it imprinted in my brain like the unsightly surgical scar on my chest? Did I want to?

Despite the horrible dreams and my mind's attempts to blur it, one truth stood out: he did not do it. Whatever my head said, every other cell in my body told me otherwise. But with the amount of anguish he caused me, I was inclined to wish he did. So I could just move on and forget him.

"Fucking hell," I groaned, pressing the balls of my palm to my eyes. 

The nightmares did not come often, but when they did, it would be a two-week suspense-thriller marathon each time I went to bed. And the bloody head of the admiral never failed to make an appearance. Neither did Jacob's ocean eyes full of hurt and regret.

"Bradley, anak (child), are you okay?" my mom peered through my door, wrapping her night robe and tying the belt around her waist. She looked wide awake and hardly even disheveled, unlike one who jumped out of bed would.

"Yeah, I'm okay now. Just another dream," I shrugged, not wanting to worry her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked as she strode inside and sat on my bed. She placed a hand on my knee and rubbed her thumb comfortingly.

"Nah, they're just the same ones as before. Nothing new," I forced a small smile.

"Did Jacob hurt you?" her sympathetic eyes found mine.

"W-what? It wasn't about Jacob, mom. What are you talking about?" I subconsciously pulled my knee from under her hand.

"Bradley, you were on calling his name, then some curses, and I don't know. What happened with you two?" her eyes were full of worry.

"Nothing, mom. Maybe because he jumped in front of me that's why I was warning him? Or maybe because he was about to get hurt? I don't know. I don't know why I was calling his name." I lied.

"He apologized to your dad and me before he left, you know. He still had a tube coming out of his chest. The moment it was pulled out, he hopped on the next flight to the UK," she said. "I'm sorry he had to leave, son."

I had no idea that happened, just as I was clueless as to why tears were forming in my eyes. Why the fuck was I crying?

"He apologized for what? Mom, what on earth are you sorry about?" I chuckled and rubbed my eyes to stop the tears from forming and falling. She sighed.

"I really hate seeing you this way, anak," she pulled my head down and placed a lingering kiss on my forehead. She surprised me by holding my face in her hands and looking at me straight in my eyes, holding back her worry and tears.

"If you love him, fight for him. If you don't want to, move on and let him go," she whispered meaningfully.

"Mom, what fuck are you even saying?" I chuckled nervously as I pulled my face away. What the actual fuck?

"Language, Bradley, I am your mother," she gave me a stern glare before her gaze softened again. "Anak, I love you unconditionally, whether or not you accept who you are."

"Wait, Mom, hold on a second. You came here to talk about my nightmare." I shut my eyes for a few seconds before opening them, trying to understand what in hell's name was happening at that moment.

"But isn't it sort of a nightmare? Not knowing or not accepting who you are?" she hesitantly but blatantly put it out there.

"No, but I'll tell you what a nightmare is: it's waking up to another nightmare where your mother is talking about acceptance at one in the morning, telling you you're calling out some guy's name one minute, then about letting him go the next," I berated. "You're so confusing, Mom."

No, you're the confused one, a voice in my head replied.

She sighed again. "How about let's get some egg nog and cookies?"

"What? Mom, are you shitting me?"

"Language, Bradley!" she gave my lips a strong flick of her finger.

"Ouch, mom!" I quickly covered my mouth as the sharp pain jolted my system more awake than the bad dream. I gave her a muffled apology.

"What's wrong with having eggnog and cookies with my son?" she cocked an eyebrow.

"It's one in the morning, and you never made egg nog. What the actual... what on earth is going on?"

"He gave me a nice recipe for the holidays. Your dad and I have been drinking it for the past days and to tell you frankly, it's quite addicting. So suit yourself if you don't want a mug. I'm having one," she replied haughtily.

"He? Who's he?" but she did not answer. Instead, she stood up and gave me a sharp look, silently ordering me to follow her to the kitchen.

Bless these mothers and their threatening glares. I sighed and got out of bed, not bothering to wash my face or pat down my bed head. As I passed by my closet, I grabbed a shirt to change into and when straight down.

"D-dad, you're up, too?" I took two steps back when I found my parents giggling and looking like lovesick teenagers flirting with each other. I gagged.

He turned his sleepy eyes to me, but there was not a hint of surprise in them. "How did you expect us to hear you if we were fast asleep? Have a seat."

I hesitantly entered the kitchen, changing my shirt as I did. He slid a mug of eggnog and picked a cookie from the plate in front of him before sliding it to me as well.

"How are you, anak?" he asked, sleepily leaning his forearms on the countertop while leaning his head on my mom's shoulder as she stood beside him. She was absentmindedly stroking his hair whilst looking at me with her motherly gaze. He had a satisfied look on his face though his eyes were curiously eyeing me.

The scene in front of me would have been couple goals if only they weren't my parents. But I forget that they have always been touchy-feely. I've been out of the house for so long that I've forgotten how they were when they were together.

My mother stopped stroking my dad's hair and instead, she rested her forearm on his shoulder and rubbed the back of her fingers against his five o'clock shadow. She tilted her head, and suddenly her gaze became more scrutinizing. Something inside me ached.

I just shrugged and looked away. My pulse started to race and my breathing became shallow. My eyes darted around though I was not sure what I was looking for. The heaviness on my chest weighed me down slowly, constricting my airways. I grimaced and shut my eyes. Was it to assure myself that I was home and I was not in another nightmare? What exactly was the trigger?

"Deep breaths, Bradley, one to twelve," my dad said firmly and loudly. 

My parents could read me like a book, but I was hoping that they've forgotten how to since they've hardly seen me around. I did as he said, and after my twentieth breath, I opened my eyes to see them still together in their spot. Only this time, my dad was wide awake, and both of them had furrowed eyebrows as they observed me.

It must have taken a lot in him not to move because my dad's hands were now clenched, his jaw tensed, and my mom was once again stroking his hair.

"I'm okay," I said hoarsely, wanting to reassure them.

"Are your nightmares of Sheryl back?" he asked with trepidation.

"No," I shook my head.

When Sheryl was a budding model, she and I used to date. We were each other's firsts, and while it meant something to both of us, we hid our relationship from everyone because her parents were strict and her management did not want her to have a boyfriend. 

So technically, we weren't boyfriend-girlfriend. We were just sleeping around. I suppose it was a stronger than usual attraction, but she put her career first, and I really did not mind since I wanted to explore the field.

We fought over something I don't even recall, but then we called it quits to being sleeping buddies. That worked out well for a few weeks. Until one day, I came to school and was greeted like a celebrity by many guys, while the girls leered at me and gave me disgusted looks. I had no idea what just happened until Carlo confronted me about an illicit video of his little sister. A video I had no participation in and had no idea even existed.

By lunchtime, Jaxx called me and sent me a copy. My eyes almost bugged out when I saw Sheryl with another guy doing the deed, yet she was moaning my name. Even if it were dark and poorly taken, I strongly believed she wasn't in her right mind when it happened.

She didn't pick up my calls, did not reply to my messages. She was not in school, too. Apparently, she had been absent for a few days already, the same time the video started circulating.

Nobody believed me when I said it wasn't me. Almost all my friends at the university did not believe me. Carlo did not believe me. I mean, who would? If the girl was moaning my name, why would they believe otherwise? Only my five El Valle friends and our families believed me.

Long story short, I was lured to the men's locker room one afternoon in the guise of checking the varsity players' complaints about the showers. It was there that Carlo and some of the baseball team cornered me after their practice when they were fresh out of the showers. Franco was with them.

I was not scrawny but I did not stand a chance against seven varsity men who worked out and had a burning desire to beat the daylight out of me. I was pinned down on the floor, on the wall, against the shower where they almost drowned me. They stripped me naked, and I could only guess what would have happened if Brigs and other ROTC officers did not walk in on us. I surmise I would have died.

"Unfortunately, it has been replaced by something else entirely," I exhaled.

"The recent one," he stated, and I nodded.

"Do you think a visit to a psychiatrist would help?"

"Nah, I'm good, Dad. I just need some time. This'll go away." It was a hollow reassurance because even I was not sure how long it would take for me to get over it.

Dad changed the topic to something lighter and further away from my work or anything to do with the incident while I spaced out and stared blankly at the untouched drink and goodies in front of me.

"Bradley," he called me.

"Huh? Sorry," I ran my hand over my face.

"You need a break, son," this time, it was an order.

"I'll be okay, Dad. I need to focus on something to keep me busy." I stood up and cleared the food. I had to do something to keep me busy so I would not have to face this damn anxiety and post-traumatic stress shit.

"Brad, you're mom and I were planning to pay Jacob a visit for the holidays," he started. I spun around, jaw dropping to the floor. Both of them were taken aback. An inexplicable burning rage surged in my chest, obliterating whatever reason was left.

"What the hell, Dad? What the fuck would you do that for?" I seethed, my jaw ticking in rage. My temper quickly flared; I wasn't able to stop myself from erupting. Blood was gushing to my head my vision was slowly turning red.

How dare they? How could they do this to me? They knew he was a trigger, and yet they'd still blatantly fucking discuss this with me! I thought the night would end pleasantly, but it was going to hell very quickly.

"Let me finish," he put a calm hand up though his voice was commanding.

"Don't even think of telling me to go with you," I said through gritted teeth. Anger. Betrayal. Disbelief. What my father was doing was utter and complete bullshit.

"Do you think it would be that easy for me? That I'd be just 'Oh sure dad, no problem! Let me pack my bags'. That I would just agree and jump on the next plane with you? Come on, man!

"You said you heard me. You heard me shout his name and curse him. He was in my nightmares, people. He is the cause of this!" I pounded a stern finger on my chest.

"And you tell me that you'd want me to walk into the burning house and expect me to be pleased with your suggestion? Really? Seriously? Un-fucking-believable!" I threw the mug into the sink, the sharp sound of ceramic breaking echoed through the night. I shut my eyes tightly, gripped the edge of the sink, and concentrated on my breathing.

I did not dare look at my parents when I was unsure what I wanted to do. I just swore at them. Half of me told me it was disrespectful, but somehow they deserved it. How insensitive can you get?

I hated that they thought of thanking Jacob. I mean, yeah, thank you for saving my life and leaving me desolate and wretchedly shattered, you asshole.

And to actually flying to the UK for that? That's a tad too dramatic, to be honest. Send a thank you card, for fuck's sake. He doesn't even reply to emails. What makes you think he'd want to see you?

One to twelve, come on, Ace. BREATHE. I let out a harsh breath and inhaled deeply. One, two, three...

"He saved you, Bradley. We wanted to thank him and his parents for keeping you alive. He put his life on the line for you. Without him... Maybe you could..." my mother's voice trailed off. I kept my eyes shut, my back to them, and my hold on the sink even tighter. I was feeling a little light-headed, but it wasn't something new.

BREATHE GOD DAMMIT. Seven... Eight.. nine..ten...

"I- I'm not ready for that, mom," I stammered through my anger. Inhale...

"Will you ever be?"

"I don't know." Eleven.. twelve... exhale.

♤  ♡  ♧  ♢

Song Credit: Kyoto Song by The Cure

Author's Note

Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a serious disorder presenting differently in each case. Each person reacts differently, even when presented with the same situation. Our coping mechanisms vary. Some might symptoms might manifest immediately and obviously, others may take time, or may present insidiously, like a change in temperament or a mild form of depression and avoidance.

How a person copes or reacts should not be judged as being too much, or being "overly dramatic".  There is no "ideal" way to cope. We don't know what they've been through. All we can do is be supportive, and show them that they're not alone.

XOXO

Claire 🐻